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He learned how to make himself smaller when small was safer.

Learned which apologies ended arguments fastest.

Learned how to build beauty out of scraps because nobody ever gave him anything new.

Learned how to survive men larger than him without becoming like them.

The boy might have never seen combat, but damn if he’s not a fighter. He might express it in ways his dad and I wouldn’t, but he is.

My phone rings again. Quillan. I stare at the glowing screen, finger hovering over “Decline.” I swipe up and answer.

“What?” My tone is flat. It can’t be a coincidence that he calls just after I receive that file.

“That’s awfully friendly.” His voice echoes from behind a wall of muffled bass. A bar, or a club. Okay, so maybe not.

I rub my temples. “What do you want?”

“To check on your little witness hunt.”

My expression hardens. “Mathias send you?”

“No.” He laughs, a low, amused sound that drifts through background music. “Unlike you, my brother keeps me in the loop.”

“Unfortunate for him.”

He chuckles again, the beat of a snare drum sliding behind each word. “You sound crankier than usual.”

“I’m busy.”

“Doing?”

“Work.”

“Very descriptive.”

I reach for a cigarette, remember I’m inside, and put it back.

Quillan continues, “Mathias is wondering why you haven’t wrapped it up.”

“I know. He called me earlier.”

“Yeah, well, now I’m wondering.”

“Find a hobby.”

“You are my hobby.”

“You flirting with me, Greco?”

“Always,” he responds before growing serious. “Look, Rossi’s nervous.”

“About?”

“The witness, obviously.”

“He never saw Rossi clearly enough to identify him from a lineup.”

“That’s not what Rossi thinks.”